Talan raced through the dark, dodging between tree and brush. The moon shone down from above, reaching through leaf and limb. She ran through the strands of moonlight, each moment a frozen image of the chase. Behind her, the savod roared.

  She couldn’t look back on it. The bright eyes shining against skin as dark as the night sky haunted her mind. It was an impossible creature, one she was so certain was still lost in legends. Her father’s words from before the madness echoed in her mind.

  “We lost much to seal them, but they will be back one day.”

  If only she had remembered. All the signs were there, even if her people no longer were what they once were. Even after the curse fell over them and twisted them into forms corrupted by the night.

  A tree behind her exploded in a shower of splinters. An enormous black claw reached out toward her. With a breath, Talan opened a path into the Veil, jumping through the black circle that formed before her and into darkness.

  For only a fleeting moment, she was in the cold black night of the Veil. Distant glimmering lights shone all around her, like thousands of eyes glowing in firelight. She returned to Nelim in another breath, stepping back out into the grass and onto her shadow.

  Did she have enough power to finish it? There was so little left now. She hadn’t used any spell work in ages. Even her soul would run dry. One maybe two jumps, she didn’t have any more left. She breathed in a deep breath and concentrated.

  The wailing roar shook her again. She shuddered and searched around. The trip through the Veil hadn’t brought her far enough. The savod was still too close. She stretched out limbs made of shadow and propelled herself forward, running in long slinking strides.

  More cries echoed through the night coming at her from all directions. Talan was sure. More than just one hunted her. All around her, shadows wavered through the trees, and glowing eyes burned.

  She slowed and finally stopped, listening to the forest.

  The brush surrounding her on all four sides shuddered, and four men covered in darkness lumbered out. They weren’t savod, but they were victims of the savod’s influence. The darkness drove them mad until they followed the whispers.

  She tried to draw up the magic again to open the Veil. The magic flared and sputtered in her heart. She was out. She needed someone to make a pact with. Someone other than the shells that stood around her.

  Talan held her arms up and let the last remnants of her magic fade away. The savod didn’t want her dead. They still needed her to break the seal. Even their mindless servants would know that. She didn’t resist.

  The monsters took hold of her arms and pulled her into the air. They treated her roughly, but not one took its claws to her throat. She would have to wait, that was the only way for her to escape.

  She only hoped that she was right.

  Orange light streamed down through the clustered limbs of the trees, speckling through the shade over Logan as he did his best to sleep. He pulled the black hood of his cloak further over his head, but even that was not enough to block out the light. The sharp cries of hundreds of birds did little to help either.

  Logan ran his hand through his long black hair, brushing it back in his hood. The week’s growth of fuzz scratched across his arm at the slightest touch. There was little chance to shave, or sleep, while he was so near the plains.

  He reached down, lifting his sheathed sword from the grass and using it to bring himself up to his knee. He wasn’t wearing his normal leather armor. There wasn’t any point in doing so until he was back on guard duty.

  Sighing, Logan stood and wiped the dust from his brown pants. The hill he had chosen to nap upon provided an open view of the caravan. The wagons circled around a bonfire below. Logan’s brown eyes could see the people going about their work in their camp, dressed in their bright colors even when doing labor.

  At each entrance to camp stood two men, covered in the same black cloak that Logan wore. They were members of the Crows, mercenaries that sold out their services to any who would pay. Their leader did have a bit of a moral preference, however.

  To Logan it was just another job.

  “Trying to get some rest, lad?” Logan looked down, seeing the very red haired leader coming up to him.

  Adrian was a highlander from Faye, built as if a man carved from a giant boulder. He had a long ponytail, the only remnant of his once full head of hair. The rest of his head was brightly bald, covered with scars from a hard life. His long red beard made of for it. He had golden loops and coins tied through it, making it ring with each step.

  “I’m still uneasy,” Logan said, pointing north. “We’ll be near the forest today.”

  “One of my men, afraid of a forest.” Adrian laughed. “Do you think a savod is going to drag you under a tree?”

  “No.” Logan crossed his arms across his chest. “I do worry about the sarpan tribes that camp near it.”

  “We have enough men to handle a few raiders,” Adrian said, stepping up to Logan and placing a hand on his shoulder. “The majority of their warriors will be on the front lines down south.”

  “I still don’t like this path,” Logan said.

  “It’s the shortest path across the plains,” Adrian said, his eyes narrowing. “If we cross it here and use the forest to hide the caravan, we can reach the safety of the Golden Road and head back west. That’s why we chose it.”

  “I know, Adrian,” Logan said, trying to settle the churning in his gut.

  “Come on then.” Adrian pushed Logan ahead of him back toward the camp. “Let’s go grab some food before they’re ready to head out again.”

  They went down into the caravan, earning only nods from the guards as they passed through the perimeter. In the camp itself, the wanderns were courteous, but afforded little but friendly smiles. They did not delight in having to bring in outsiders, even for their own safety.

  “They’re just sad to see the coin go,” Adrian said for the hundredth time since they began the job.

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  “It might be more than that,” Logan said. “They’d rather spit on us than look at us.”

  “Some of their women are very sweet on us.” Adrian smiled with a glint in his eye.

  “They might pick your pockets in your sleep,” Logan said as they came up to the cooking pots.

  A vegetable stew boiled, filling the air with the spice of onions, garlic and tomatoes. The old woman who cooked stood ready with her ladle and wooden bowls, her wrinkled fingers working with an ease that belied their age. She smiled the same thin smile that she always smiled.

  They ate standing. There was little room in the camp while the wandern packed everything away. Adrian ate fast, slurping his entire bowl down while hardly using his wooden spoon. He had already left to check on the other men by the time Logan was halfway done.

  Left alone, Logan wandered around the camp. They had been on the job for a whole week, yet he still found the way the wandern carried themselves to be interesting. They were freer than the people who lived in the cities, free at least from the power struggles of lords and barons.

  Yet, there was a sad air about them. They really had no place to call their own. They didn’t own any land. He and his fellow mercenaries were much the same. Only a few had families, and very few would admit to it.

  He just began walking when he came to something he hadn’t seen before. It had the same rough wooden construction as all the other wagons, but with a dark cloth draped over it. A woman was packing up and placing what looked like skulls into crates.

  “Those aren’t human, are they?” Logan asked, causing the woman to look up hurriedly.

  She was beautiful, her tan skin smooth to Logan’s eyes. She had emerald eyes, and if he remembered anything about the sea bound traders of the Virin Trade Empire, they were renowned for their emerald eyes.

  “These are imp skulls.” She gave him a dazzling smile that did little to convince him for a moment that she was not lying.

  “I am Logan, of the Crows,” Logan said, doing his best to ignore the skulls.

  “And I am Kismet.” The woman bowed, “teller of fortunes.”

  “A soothsayer,” Logan said. “I’m surprised to see one of you even this far outside of Tyra.”

  “Do you want to know your fortune?” Kismet asked. “The bones can tell you of your path.”

  “I think I’ll be fine without it,” Logan said.

  “You don’t believe in fate then?” Kismet asked.

  “I don’t,” Logan said. “If fate is set in stone, then I don’t need to know it. If it isn’t, then what’s coming doesn’t matter anyway. Fate is useless.”

  “We are nearing a very mystical place.” Kismet’s beautiful smile turned to a frown. “It might do you better to heed powers beyond your pathetic mind.”

  “I’ll consider it.” Logan hid his smile.

  He walked away quickly, placing his empty bowl near the cooking woman. His encounter with Kismet was similar to many that all the mercenaries had with the wandern. They tended not to share the same ideas.

  He headed out to the edge of camp, searching for Adrian. Logan found him quickly. He stood in the center of his men, giving out orders for the day ahead. Logan hurried over, standing at the edge so that he could listen.

  “We’ll be nearer to the forest today,” Adrian said. “We’ll have to watch carefully. Bandits love to use the forest to attack. I’ll be sending some of you ahead to scout our route. If the way is dangerous, you’ll need to mark it with one of these.”

  He held up a steel metal tube. It was a smoke marker. With only some flint and steel, a scout could light the powder in the tube and it would send up a small white plume of smoke. It was a fast way to communicate with the caravan without giving away its position.

  The scout wasn’t always as lucky.

  “Logan,” Adrian said, throwing one to him. “You’ll have the eastern flank, deep in the forest.”

  “Great.” Logan sighed as he caught the tube.

  “Carl, Van,” Adrian continued, going through everyone else. “You have the north and south flank. Gramm, take two with you and cover the west. It’s still more likely we’ll be dealing with sarpans.”

  Carl and Van nodded in acknowledgement, the bald headed brothers stepping forward to accept their markers. Gramm tapped two men near him on the shoulder, signaling that they would be coming with him. In moments their meeting dispersed, the remaining twelve would cover the caravan.

  Logan went to the equipment wagon. He quickly put on his armor, a boiled leather cuirass, gloves, and spaulders, all dyed black to match the band’s colors. He tied his sword in place on his belt, making sure that his two knives were still there.

  Already, the armor clasped tightly about his chest. He always hated its tight grip through his clothes. It pinched his skin. Yet, it was a necessity. He threw his cloak back over it, covering the armor from sight.

  As he was leaving, the wandern were already moving their caravan into position, setting up the wagons into rows with oxen pulling them. The rest of the Crows formed four packs around the wagons. Their horses stomped on the ground impatiently.

  Logan and Adrian exchanged a quick wave as Logan headed out on foot toward the shadow of the nearby trees. The air cooled immediately, allowing him some respite from the rising heat of the day. He might have been stuck in the forest, but at least he wouldn’t have to deal with the heat or smells of the caravan.

  Fortunately, he knew already that he probably wouldn’t encounter anything on his mission. The forest might have been a haven for bandits, but they rarely stayed for long there. No one wanted anything to do with the forest, according to everything he heard.

  There were many stories about the forest and the evils that lurked there. Ogres, savod, sprites, and even darklings walked the paths. He had been all over the Five Kingdoms, and ogres were all he had ever seen.

  The stories were more than likely just that, stories to keep people out of the forest.

  Logan continued through the forest, pushing his thoughts away. There was no sense dwelling on them. He turned his eyes and ears to the forest, listening for anything odd. He could hear the caravan start its trek north before he moved out of earshot.

  The sounds of forest animals soon replaced those of the caravan. The cries of birds and the howls of wolves rose to Logan’s ears. He tread carefully, his boots only making a soft crunch on the dead leaves that lay strewn on the forest floor. He kept his eyes focused on his path, looking for any sign of passage.

  The forest seemed timeless, the movement of the sun masked by the intricate canopy of limbs. He walked through the brush for what seemed like days, seeing no sign of anything passing through. There were a few deer tracks dried solid in the dirt, but they were days old.

  He stopped suddenly, seeing an unfamiliar track. Logan bent down to examine it. Three claw marks dug deep down into the dirt, each one farther apart than a fully-grown man’s fist. They weren’t ogre’s tracks. The feet were too thin.

  Logan followed them for a time, going deeper and deeper into the forest. Silence crept through the trees, cutting off the sounds of the animals. His heart hammered faster in his chest. What could make these kinds of tracks?

  Logan took off on a parallel path. He no longer kept strictly to the tracks, taking a northeastern heading. He had more immediate signs to follow now. A line of bent and broken branches now marked the path.

  Still, silence dominated the forest.

  Fire raced through his lungs as he ran across the rough terrain. His armor bit into his skin as he ducked under the branches. He dodged through the trees and bushes, keeping an eye on the trampled brush.

  A wailing cry in the distance gave him pause, the sound shaking his bones. It was the cry of a creature in pain, warped as it echoed through the forest. Logan slowed to a jog, keeping his eyes forward.

  The cry grew louder. It scratched at his ears as he moved closer. His stomach turned as he finally reached a clearing. The blinding light of the sun assaulted his eyes as he looked out of the shadows. He knelt down, taking cover in the brush.

  There were five men gathered in the clearing, or things that once were men. Dark spots marked their bodies, and a dead look marred their eyes. They shambled about clumsily, as if they had little control of their own bodies.

  Logan had not seen anything like this before.

  Something else he hadn’t seen before caught his attention, sitting in a cage beside the men. It was a creature born of black flame, its skin dark as night. It looked almost like a child, a plume of dark green fire shot out from its head and green orbs glowed on its arms.

  “Darkling,” Logan whispered.

  Logan edged closer, keeping low in the brush. He pulled his marker from his belt, feeling its weight in his hand. He wasn’t sure if he should use it or not.

  Logan started backing away. This was completely beyond him. The caravan’s safety was more important. A loud crack rang out through the clearing as he stepped back, his boot catching a branch and snapping it in two.

  From the cage, green eyes looked up, staring directly at him.